A Pilgrimage to Murder

by Paul Doherty

  ‘Yes,’ Athelstan replied, ‘Canes Domini – the hounds of the Lord. You’ve had dealings with my order before, I am certain of that.’ He paused and glanced swiftly to his left. He was sure he had heard a sound and glimpsed a shadow flit behind the board where the drink and food were served: the great barrels, tuns and vats stood in a long line behind the boarded trestle table. Athelstan suspected someone was lurking there.

  ‘We really should be going.’ Beatrice rose, flouncing out her skirts.

  Athelstan made to rise when he heard footfall behind him and the click of a crossbow as the twine was winched back and held in place. Athelstan glanced round and sighed with relief. Cranston, flanked by Watkin, Pike and the hangman, emerged out of the shadows around the door. Beatrice retook her seat.

  ‘You will not be going,’ Cranston declared flatly.

  ‘Well, not for the moment,’ Giole cheerily called back. ‘We will listen to what the friar has to say but then be gone.’

  ‘Be that as it may,’ Athelstan declared, ‘our librarian at Blackfriars, or rather our archivist, is Brother Norbert, a most learned Dominican, a man well versed in the history of our order and its work in different countries throughout Europe. I asked him to send me information on two particular matters: the Angel of Death, known as Azrael, and a commentary on the Basque country, that stretch of land in Northern Spain and the tribes which inhabit both sides of the great mountain chain separating Spain from France. Now these tribes are truly ferocious and warlike. They have never been properly conquered and have proved to be a great obstacle to armies who try to pass between the two countries, as the paladins Roland and Oliver found to their cost. The mountains are in some places impenetrable. The passes are needle-thin trackways. In winter, a whole army can be lost, whilst during the summer, a scorching heat dries up the pools and springs. The Romans tried to pacify this mountainous area. The great seigneurs of France and Castile have attempted the same, with little effect.’ Athelstan paused. ‘Holy Mother Church has also launched crusading missions which, to a certain extent, were successful but did not eradicate the pagan beliefs and practices amongst the tribes. The Holy Inquisition, or not so Holy as many would say, played a prominent part in this. The Inquisition is led by the Dominican Order which works on behalf of the Pope in Rome.’

  ‘And the relevance of all this to us?’ Giole snapped.

  ‘Now these tribes,’ Athelstan continued unruffled, ‘have ancient rites. One of these is human or animal sacrifice where blood is not shed. In their belief, bloodshed diminishes the efficacy and power of their offering. Consequently, those who follow such pagan rituals become very adept and skilled with the garrotte and the strangulation of their victims.’ Athelstan pointed at Giole and his companions. ‘I truly believe you belong to such a sect. I also suspect that you and yours have been hunted, yes, even persecuted by the Inquisition. Its investigators show little mercy or compassion; they condemn people such as you to the horrifying death of being burnt at the stake.’

  Athelstan paused. Simply by their expressions he could see that Giole and his coven had kinsmen and loved ones who had experienced all the terrors the Inquisition could inflict: the constant hunt, capture, brutal interrogation and ferocious torture followed by the cruellest of deaths. ‘The best place to hide,’ Athelstan continued, ‘is as deep as possible amongst your enemy, to become like them in every way.’ He waved a hand. ‘I am not too sure whether you four are a family or just a coven of murderers, of skilled assassins who do not accept for a moment anything I or Sir John believe in. To be sure, that doesn’t really matter now. Giole, you told me your life story; whether it’s the truth or not is irrelevant, you are what you pretend to be. You did inform us on our way here that you’d lived in Albi, a city notorious for its opposition to Rome. Anyway, you came out of the mountains, you mingle and merge into Castilian society, becoming both a physician and a very good one,’ Giole spread his hands and bowed mockingly, ‘as well as a tavern master, a cook par excellence.’ Again the mocking bow.

  ‘But you are all Azrael.’ Athelstan held up his hand, fingers splayed. ‘Azrael is supposed to be four-faced with four wings, which means you, Giole, and your three companions. One coven or family, one demon but four murderous souls. You pretend to be Castilian and Catholic, in truth you are pagan. Your only allegiance is to your own ancient culture, religion and rituals. For all I know, Azrael could be one of your demon gods. You must have rejoiced to take such a title. Giole, you are extremely arrogant yet you also have the darkest sense of humour.’

  ‘Friar, all these compliments! I thought you were going to accuse us.’ Giole turned and spoke swiftly in Spanish to his companions. Maria laughed mockingly, fingers covering her mouth. Athelstan flinched at the hateful look the young woman threw him, lips moving silently as if whispering some curse. He also sensed an assurance, a certain confidence, as if this murderous coven owned a secret, something which they could use as both protection and a safe conduct.

  ‘I strongly suspect,’ he continued, ‘you mingled deep in Castilian society. By day a physician, a bon viveur, a master cook, a loving, charming family. Once darkness fell however, away from the light, you were assassins, very skilled and gifted ones, employed only by the powerful and rich. A great source of profit. I confess, I do not know how you hawk your murderous services, but I suspect you were probably chosen by the present monarch of Castile for a most important task here in this kingdom.’

  ‘You have proof of this?’ Beatrice challenged. ‘You keep us here when we should be gone.’ She threw an anxious glance at Felipe. Athelstan sensed that they were a family group, killers to the bone but very close. The friar also believed that his earlier suspicion was correct. Felipe had been injured at St Grace’s, and Beatrice wanted her son out of here.

  ‘Evidence and proof,’ Athelstan countered. ‘You are assassins despatched into England some years ago after John of Gaunt proclaimed his right to the throne of Castile. Following the regent’s marriage to the Infanta Constanza, many Castilians flocked to this kingdom, you four amongst them. Once again you mingled with the crowd, you used your wealth to buy and develop that spacious tavern, Amongst the Tombs. An excellent disguise. You became a respected family in Farringdon. You, Giole, were appointed ward physician. You acted your part and waited for your secret orders.’ Athelstan wetted his lips. ‘You are a consummate mummer, Giole. You have a charm and tact to inveigle others to accept you. I found you of great assistance in the trapping and unmasking of Robert the clerk.’

  ‘A garrulous, inept moon-man,’ Giole scoffed.

  ‘Not like you, eh? The silent, deadly assassin. In the main you kept hidden. Occasionally you struck, garrotting certain individuals who might finance Gaunt in his ambitions for the crown of Castile.’ Athelstan smiled thinly. ‘You ask for evidence, but of course you supplied it yourself.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Giole snapped.

  ‘Your dark sense of humour, physician, your desire to ridicule our scriptures, your love of puzzles and mysteries. You do seem particularly fascinated by those verses from Chapter Eight of Saint Luke’s Gospel which describe Christ’s confrontation with the Gasarene demoniac. I now understand why. The possessed man claims that his name is legion because he shelters many devils. The Latin word for legion, ‘legio’ can also be formed into your name Giole, whilst ‘multi – many’ also contains every letter of your family name Limut. So we have Giole Limut. Correct?’

  The physician simply smiled, gesturing with his hands that his companions should also remain silent. ‘You’re fascinated with that account of the Gasarene demoniac, aren’t you? It suits both your mood and the way you have forged four souls into one. You even took another phrase from the same account, for Luke’s Gospel describes how the demoniac lived ‘amongst the tombs’. You borrowed that phrase ‘amongst the tombs’ for the name of your tavern, claiming quite wrongly that it was built over ancient sepulchres.’ Athelstan rose, pulling the stool beneath him closer to his adversaries, w
ho were half hidden in the shifting grey light of dawn. Behind him he heard Cranston growl at Master Chobham, informing the taverner that he and others should stay out of the taproom until told otherwise.

  ‘You love playing with fire,’ Athelstan continued, ‘baiting and taunting a society you deeply despise and reject. Nevertheless such secret jibing carries its own dangers.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘You murdered one of Gaunt’s supporters, a wealthy merchant, and left your mocking message, “Lord Azrael greets you. Fear us because our name is legion for we are many.” Of course this cryptic, mysterious message passed through the Secret Chancery at Westminster and into the hands of a very experienced and skilled cipher clerk, Simon Mephan. Now Mephan loved word puzzles and began to study this enigmatic message. He already knew you as a taverner, Giole, and as the ward physician who became his personal doctor. Mephan studied those phrases. God knows how, but I suspect he first stumbled on the similarity, as I did, between ‘Giole’ and ‘legio’. Once he’d achieved this, Mephan would move to Limut and realise that it shared the same letters as the Latin word for many – ‘multi.’

  ‘Mephan was an old fool,’ Giole spat out to murmurs of approval from his companions. Athelstan sensed their deep hostility to that ageing clerk who had stumbled on their secret and threatened to reveal it.

  ‘I did wonder,’ Athelstan continued, ‘why you didn’t silence Mephan through poison or arrange some accident in the street. However, as Robert the clerk discovered, poisoning can be as dangerous for the perpetrator as it is for his victims, whilst an arranged accident can provoke suspicion. And there were two further factors. As I have said, for you garrotting is part of some ritual or rite. Secondly, it wasn’t just Mephan you had to take care of, there were the evangelists, Mephan’s comrades in the Secret Chancery, as well as their courier Roger Empson. I am correct?’

  Giole made a face. ‘I told you, friar, state your case.’ The physician patted his doublet, ‘and I shall state mine. Oh, by the way,’ Giole pointed to Cranston and the three parishioners, ‘I would ask you to be most careful with your weapons. We are what we are, as we shall prove, so be most prudent.’

  Athelstan hid his surprise. He was disconcerted by Giole’s calm statement as well as by the cool assurance of the physician and his fellow murderers.

  He continued: ‘Mephan was also fascinated by the Gesarene demoniac who lived, so the verse says, amongst the tombs – the name of your tavern. This would not have escaped Mephan’s attention. True to his blackmailing nature, Mephan began to hint, didn’t he, at your great secret? You see,’ Athelstan sighed, ‘Mephan had grown accustomed to bullying, hectoring and blackmailing people to fill his belly. Now,’ Athelstan spread his hands, ‘you might dismiss all these allegations as sheer nonsense. After all, you could take any group of words or letters and fashion a litany of interesting theories. Mephan, however, stumbled on something much more sinister. He was being followed by a lone Spaniard. This individual was glimpsed in the street as well as in the taverns Mephan frequented, including yours. God knows who this Spaniard was, but you would be alarmed: he was certainly not of your coven, and I suppose those who are not with you are against you. Mephan complained to you, didn’t he, about this mysterious individual? You realised he was correct and, for your own secret, devious purposes, murdered that Spaniard and sent his corpse floating in the Thames.’

  Athelstan paused as Giole languidly got to his feet. Cranston stepped forward but Athelstan held up a warning hand. Giole strolled arrogantly across to the great board. He picked up one of the jugs of ale, filled it and then brought it back. He replenished his own blackjack and those of his three companions, put it on the table and sat down whispering to his companions.

  ‘You are correct,’ Athelstan declared. ‘Mephan was a truly stupid man, highly intelligent, a very skilled, even gifted cipher clerk, but he knew little about human nature. He totally underestimated you. He thought he could blackmail you, wipe his lips and walk away.’

  ‘If he suspected us to be assassins,’ Felipe scoffed, ‘he would never have dared …’

  ‘Mephan did dare and he thought, with no risk to himself, and so he made his second grievous mistake. Mephan intimated he had shared his secrets with the evangelists and the Secret Chancery courier Empson. He did this to protect himself, or so he thought. I actually don’t think he did inform his colleagues, indeed, I am sure of it, but he certainly insinuated to Felicia that good profit would come his way. In the end you made the judgement that Mephan and all his associates should be marked down for death.’

  Athelstan paused at a sound from behind the great board. Ignoring Cranston’s murmur that it was probably some tavern cat or slithering rat, Athelstan went across and around the great serving table. He walked past the huge vats and barrels on their heavy, oaken struts. He could see nothing untoward but felt a cold draught of air and glimpsed a large horn-filled window creaking back and forth in the early morning breeze. He secured it and returned to his stool.

  Giole and his confederates were deep in hushed conversation. The friar turned and glanced at Sir John, who stood with the crossbow he had primed. Watkin, Pike and the hangman, fascinated by what they were hearing and seeing, whispered amongst themselves, their weapons also primed and ready.

  Athelstan tapped his sandalled foot noisily on the floorboards and spoke again: ‘Master Mephan had already started to profit, or so he thought, from you. I noticed in his kitchen the Spanish wine and the gammon cured and cooked in mustard. I saw a similar wine and ham in your tavern when Sir John and I were your guests – a most singular visit which I will return to. Anyway, you would not let Mephan run for long. Your truly resented, even hated him and his arrogant, smug belief that he’d discovered who you were and could use this to his advantage. Nobody baits you. Nobody like Mephan dares meddle in your affairs. You sent your accursed warning to Mephan, the evangelists and Empson the courier, “Lord Azrael greets you”. Mephan may have been mystified but you soon demonstrated what this message meant. On that particular evening, Physician Giole, you and your coven of assassins arrived at Mephan’s house in Milk Street. He might have been surprised yet he had no choice but to smilingly admit this leading physician and his kin into his home. I doubt if Mephan ever realised that all four of you were assassins.’

  ‘Why didn’t Mephan go to the authorities?’ Felipe called out. ‘Why not share his suspicions with my Lord of Gaunt or Master Thibault?’

  ‘Oh, in time he might have done,’ Athelstan replied. ‘But events were moving swiftly, weren’t they? Moreover, Mephan had really very little proof and he was extremely greedy. He looked forward to milking you of money. He was used to blackmailing taverners and escaping unscathed. He thought the same would happen with you, but it didn’t. On that particular evening, once you were inside, the door was bolted. I am not too sure when and how you killed Finchley and Felicia, but I suspect you sent Mephan up to his bedchamber on some spurious excuse. Finchley and Felicia were separated and dealt with. A few breaths, their lives choked off and their corpses placed next to each other. Mephan came down. He realised what was happening. The door to the street was locked and guarded so he hastily fled back to his bedchamber but the shock, the fear and the panic are too much. Mephan feels an intense pain grip his chest. He sits down at his chancery desk and opens the book of Luke’s Gospel. He takes a quill pen and underscores those two words ‘legio’ and ‘multi’. He may have also searched for the phrase ‘amongst the tombs’ but it’s all too much. The pain in his chest is now intense. Mephan closes the book. He pushes it away, collapses and dies and that’s how you found him. You are a physician. You realise he’s dead, whilst a swift examination of the desk reveals nothing untoward.’ Athelstan cocked his head to one side and smiled. ‘You overlooked that book of the gospels, didn’t you, Azrael? Your first great mistake. Mephan may have been foolish but in his death he helped us trap you.’

  ‘I was with you,’ Giole taunted, ‘that morning in Mepha
n’s house when Azrael appeared.’

  ‘Nonsense! All four of you carried out that murder in Milk Street, Azrael the demon with four faces. I wondered why your hands were not scored. You wear gauntlets of Toledo steel; they fit more like a mesh of the finest silk which allows you to grip and to twist without marking the palms of your hands. Toledo steel is the best, the finest and the costliest: one of the great products of Castile. I found a link from one of these special gloves in John Gaddesden’s chamber. You, Giole, do the garrotting. The others, be it all three or just two, seize the victim’s wrists and legs, not for long, just a few heartbeats, as when it is needed, the mask is pulled down and the garrotte string whipped around the victim’s throat.’ Athelstan glanced over his shoulder at the hangman. ‘How long would you say, Giles?’

  ‘As you remarked, Father, a few heartbeats. The shock alone would petrify victims: the hood, the seizure of their arms and ankles. They would be like a rabbit turned to stone by a stoat. The garrotte would be easy for someone so skilled.’

  ‘I agree. Let us imagine one such death. Young Felicia separated from Finchley and Mephan.’ Athelstan spread his hands. ‘Let us say she is in the kitchen with all four of you. Giole slips behind her, the garrotte whips around her throat and is pulled. She is literally petrified. Beatrice pulls over the hood if you needed one. Giole’s garrotte is already tightening. Felicia’s hands and ankles are seized. So swift, so deadly!’ Athelstan took out his ave beads. ‘You regard such killings as part of some ancient religion, you certainly reject ours. I noticed when we gathered here for common prayer, just after we arrived at the Sign of Hope, that none of you had prayer beads, rosaries, Ave Maria cords, a crucifix or a Paternoster ring. In fact, I had to lend you mine, do you remember? Moreover, none of you supposedly devout Castilian Catholics wear any crosses or religious artefacts.’

  ‘Superstition,’ Maria blurted out before Giole could stop her.